Untitled
by twasadark
Summary: Prompt: Set in S4. Sam has a fever and Dean is taking care of him. Sam also tells his brother he thinks Dean doesn't love him anymore, and Dean convinces him otherwise.


Sam sat straight up in his motel bed like a prairie dog alerting to danger, which would have been weird on its own merit. The fact that it was 4 am made it _really_ weird.

Dean rubbed his eyes, and spoke with a sleep-cracked voice. "Sam? What's wrong?"

"The robin has purple eggs. Give me a washcloth, will you?"

Um. What?

Dean blinked. Sam merely looked at him with expectation and not a little exasperation. Dean got up and shuffled into the bathroom and turned the light on. The fan came on at the same time – a whirring clatter that sounded like a 50 year old combine chopping down a field of razor blades. He fumbled around in the stack of white towels before he found one of the appropriate size, and took it back to Sam, who was still sitting up in bed.

Sam looked at the washcloth, then tossed it on the floor and turned over on his side, making a deep, hitching breath.

"Hey!" Dean protested. "I got my ass out of a sound sleep to get you that, and you throw it on the floor? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Sam sniffed, and said, "You don't love me any more."

Then his shoulders started to shake in a convincingly genuine manner.

"Are you _crying_?" Dean blurted out. Because this was just … well, it was freaking _bizarre_ is what it was.

"I still love you," Sam replied, tears in his voice.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud--"

Dean got up and strode around the bed to where Sam lay curled on his side, fists knotted in the puce bedspread and a shiny sheen of moisture coating his cheeks. Dean crawled on the bed and pulled Sam's hands toward him, and that's when he noticed it. Sam's skin was unnaturally warm. And, now that he was closer, he could see that Sam's face was flushed, too. Concerned, he put a hand to Sam's forehead.

Aw, crap. The kid was burning up. And he had a history of getting dopey and weepy when he was sick. Dean thought back to the day, which had been spent driving across Iowa on the way to Bobby's, Sam slumped in the passenger seat glumly. They'd had a brief argument about Dean's feelings or some shit, which Dean had dismissed as another of his brother's emo brood sessions. Instead, he was apparently coming down with quite the case of flu.

Dean pulled the bedspread off of Sam. "Here, let's get you cooled down."

"No!" Sam cried, almost frantic. "I want to know when you stopped."

"Holy—okay, okay. Stopped what?"

"Loving me."

Dean tried really, really hard not to sigh or roll his eyes. "Look, Sam, you're obviously feverish. Probably have the swine flu or something. So just shut up, okay?"

Sam's lip twitched; one might even say it trembled. "You're a dick," he said in a thick voice.

"Hey, you woke _me_ up. That's a pretty dickish thing to do. I'm going to get you some aspirin and wet the washcloth for your head, okay?"

Sam pouted. Honest to God _pouted_. It took Dean a moment to realize that it was because he hadn't seen that expression for at least ten years.

Dean swiped up the hand towel and stood up. Sam clutched at him. "Don't go anywhere, okay? Even if you don't love me anymore you can still stay, can't you?"

"Sam, just stop that talk, all right? You know I love you," Dean snapped, and headed for the bathroom. He was standing at the sink, wetting the hand towel, before he realized what he'd said. Holy shit. Fucking Sam, always hitting below the belt.

"Dean, hurry up!" Sam whined from the other room.

Speak of the devil.

"I'm coming. Jeez."

Sam was lying on his back now, hand pressed to his forehead like some sort of fainting virgin. Dean pulled his hand aside and laid the cool cloth on his forehead instead, then rummaged around in his duffel until he found the aspirin. When he shook three aspirin out in his palm, Sam said hopefully, "Water?"

"What are you, three?" Dean bitched. Sam just looked at him, eyes in full on puppy dog mode. Mumbling under his breath, Dean went back into the bathroom and peeled the paper off the clean glass next to the sink and filled it with water. He sat on the edge of Sam's bed and handed it to him, watching as Sam sat up on one elbow and gulped the water thirstily. Just like he had when he was three.

When he lay back down, Dean rearranged the washcloth, which had slipped off onto the pillow. "Go back to sleep, will you? You'll feel better tomorrow."

Sam gave him a surprisingly sweet smile. "Thanks, Dean." Then turned over and snuggled down into the covers with a contented sigh.

Dean shook his head and crawled back into his bed. Maybe this was all some weird ass dream? As he was settling in, he heard Sam mumble, "Knew you'd say it."

That's when Dean remembered the subject of the argument they'd had earlier. Sam had been complaining that Dean didn't express his feelings in words. Dean sat up.

"Sam, you little shit!"

Sam gave an amused sniff. "I love you too, Dean."


End file.
